29. Hugo
Chapter 29
Hugo
"Mom?" I pop my head into the kitchen at the big house.
"Back here," she yells.
I'm walking through the living room to find her when she emerges from the office. Aunt Carmen follows behind, wearing her eyeglasses and holding a pad of paper, pencil poised above it.
She reads out, "... Proud owner of a sexy cardigan collection, Ralph spent his Friday nights country dancing with two left feet and romancin' the ladies."
"Cute," my mom compliments about my aunt's latest obituary. She turns an appraising eye on me. "Hugo, are you here to tell me about the young lady you have staying in your home?"
Aunt Carmen whistles. "Busted."
"It's Mallory," I explain to my mom.
She gives me a droll look. "I know. "
My eyebrows raise teasingly. "If you know, why are you asking?"
"To my knowledge, Hugo, you have never brought a woman to your home."
I rock back on my heels. "You would be right about that."
Her eyebrows lift too, imploring me. "The man who hasn't allowed a woman to step foot in his house, has one staying in it?"
"She's a guest, Mom." A guest whose back I want to curl my fingers against. Lean in after her showers to smell her bodywash. Typical guest behavior, yeah?
"So she's staying in your guest room?"
"Yes. She needed a place to go after..." I falter, unsure how to phrase it. We don't know who took pictures of her, or their motive, and Mallory said emotions can cloud the clear head a person needs to objectively see a case. "Someone entered her hotel room while she was sleeping and took photos of her with her phone. She found them and called me, terrified."
"What?" My mother shouts. "Where was she staying?"
Oh no. I know where this is going. This is the same woman who marched into my elementary art teacher's classroom and asked her how she'd like it if someone told her she's not allowed to go potty when she needs to.
"Mom." I say it calmly, hoping to demonstrate a cool head. Not that I had one the night it happened. I raced into town like it was the Indy 500. But that was different. Mallory was in a dangerous situation, and I had to get to her .
"Hugo, it'll take me two seconds to find out on my own," my mom warns.
Aunt Carmen sighs. "For the love, Hugo, just tell her."
"Olive Inn."
My mom taps a finger on her chin. "Is that why you left in the middle of the night earlier this week?"
"Yes."
"And you brought her here? To your home?"
"Yes."
"Instead of one of the other hotels in town?"
"She's safer here."
"With you."
"Huh?"
"She's safer here with you."
"Well, yes."
"Interesting."
"What is?"
"She called you when she needed help. Not the police. And you responded by not only taking her away from harm, but giving her a safe place."
I nod. "Yes, Mom."
"You turned toward each other, Hugo. She turned to you for help, you turned to her to provide it."
"I did what any decent person would do." Why am I arguing? I know how I feel inside. The way my blood flows hotter, faster when Mallory is present. The way I've thought about her every day this week while I'm working, envisioned her lying in the guest bed across the hall.
"Of course you did. That's how I raised you to behave. But Hugo, you're doing yourself a disservice by thinking you did the bare minimum."
A disservice? I don't know if I want to dissect that comment.
"You two are almost painful to watch," Aunt Carmen says. "What your mother means to say is that you have a pregnant lady shacked up at your house and you need to spend a little time thinking about why." She dusts off her hands, congratulating herself. "There. You're welcome."
My mom laughs. "Bet you didn't come here to have that conversation."
I scratch the back of my neck with two fingers. "I came here to ask where that old picnic basket is. The one we used when we were kids."
"Why?" My mom crosses her arms, staring me down. "Are you taking someone on a picnic?"
"No, I'm planning to climb inside and wait for people to pass by, then jump out and scare them half to death."
"You do that to me," Aunt Carmen says, "and I'll hit you with whatever I have in my hands at the moment."
Mom spends a handful of seconds staring me down, then decides to let me off the hook. She hunts down the picnic basket, and a few minutes later I'm on my way, basket in hand, rattled by her questions and commentary.
Saturdays are the busiest day at Summerhill. The store brims with shoppers, the restaurant packed with hungry patrons.
We're closed on Sundays, because as my mother says, even the Lord rested on Sunday. If my vote were the only one that counted, I'd be open seven days a week. Sunday is when people are off work, and would distribute the weekend crowds a little more evenly. My mother and I have equal share in Summerhill, so we compromised by expanding the hours we are open on Saturdays. Vivi has a small share of the business, but she has little to do with the operations beyond overseeing the on-site restaurant we opened in the last couple years.
This leaves me no choice but to show Mallory around Summerhill on a Saturday, with the masses.
She meets me in the kitchen at my house at eleven. She slept in today, and honestly, good for her. That woman is always working, her mind never stopping. She's either reading a book, listening to a podcast (not a fellow true crime podcast, I learned when I asked, but one on wellness), writing something, poring over her notes, or internet sleuthing. At this point, I think she knows more about the people of this town, and its history, than I do.
"You look nice," I tell her, glancing over from where I'm standing in front of the high-end coffee machine I purchased this week. It's a big upgrade from the drip coffee maker I had, and I didn't know what I was missing out on. I tell myself I would have bought it eventually, but let's be real. I bought it for Mallory after she mentioned those decaf vanilla lattes at Sweet Nothings. I love Sal, but there's no way I'll let him have a leg up on me. Not where it concerns Mallory.
"Thanks," she answers, looking down at herself. She's wearing that tan suede skirt she got at the mall last weekend. "It's a little big on me, but probably not for much longer."
I have to turn away from her to keep my face from showing my true emotions. I can't understand a man who walks away from the woman carrying his child. I'd be honored if a woman like Mallory used her body to bring my child into the world. I'd cherish her, and care for her, and do everything in my power to show her my gratitude.
Getting my bearings, I turn around with her coffee in hand.
"I was hoping that was for me," she grins impishly, taking the cup I'm offering. "I smelled the vanilla."
"And this, too." I move to the fridge, coming away with the chocolate cherry chia seed pudding I made yesterday. "I added a scoop of protein powder. Should keep you full and your blood sugar regulated."
She takes the jar from me and spins away, but it's too late. I've seen the moisture in her eyes.
"Are you ok? Did I do something wrong?" Is she allergic to chia seeds? Did she tell me, but I forgot?
"No," she says, pained. Frustrated. She grabs a spoon from a drawer and closes it with her hip. "I cry at the drop of a hat. It's annoying ."
At that, I smile. I remember that about Vivi. And if there's one person who doesn't like to cry in front of people, it's my sister .
She blinks away the tears and lifts her cup to her lips. Her gaze meets the ceiling, and she moans in a way that sends a straight shot to a part of me I'm trying to ignore. "So," she says, sliding onto the counter stool. "What did you do while I was a lazy bones this morning?"
"Accomplished a few tasks around the house. Paid bills. Answered emails. Worked out."
She perks up. "Worked out?"
"I made the fourth bedroom into a gym."
"I didn't know what that room was. The door is always closed."
"You have professional level curiosity and you haven't opened that door?"
She shrugs, cup poised at her mouth. "I'm not poking my nose into your things, Hugo. A closed door means you shouldn't open it."
"Funny you should say that, considering you came to Olive Township to figuratively open a closed door."
Realization dawns.
That's what my mom meant this morning when she kept pushing about how I brought Mallory into my home. I literally opened my door to Mallory. Is that what I'm doing with my heart, too?
Mallory wiggles her eyebrows. "I guess I'm selective about the doors I open."
I lean back against the lip of the counter, regarding her. She's beautiful. "You seemed interested when I said I worked out this morning. Is that something you do when you're at home in Phoenix?"
She nods vigorously. "I'm a regular at my Pilates reformer class." She absentmindedly strokes her stomach. I've noticed she's been doing that more often now. "I was, anyway. My center of gravity isn't going to be able to handle the reformer for a while. Definitely no inversions."
"Now I understand why you have such strong legs." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
Mallory is pressing her lips together, looking at me with mirth. "You've noticed I have strong legs?"
"Yeah," I say, playing it off. "What else was there for me to look at in the fitting room when you needed my help with your stuck zipper?"
Mallory's teeth graze her lower lip, her cheeks turned up in a smile. "I can't think of a single thing. Or two things."
"Nope," I say, palming the back of my neck.
I want to kiss her again . Wrap her up, run my hands through her hair, cup her cheeks, taste those pink lips. It's only been a few weeks since the day I met Mallory, but something about this feels... special. Like she was delivered to me. As if there's some sort of magical force making this happen .
"You're welcome to use the gym," I tell her. "No reformers in there, but it should be able to cover all the basics."
"I appreciate that," she says. She finishes her coffee. "And I appreciated my latte. And now, I would appreciate the tour of Summerhill."